On days when it is not windy I sense a tension in the trees. I feel the trees waiting, as if expecting something, holding their breaths. It is like the air is sizzling with lightning and any moment I could be struck. It feels like there are billions of thin invisible threads criss-crossing through the air. My breath feels stuck in my chest, unable to come in or go out, it has turned to solid and I choke. Eyes wide I turn to the trees for assistance but they are so far away and unmoving. Unmoving, unfeeling? It is a warm t-shirt kind of day but they seem to have been struck by winter, frozen. I wonder when spring will come.
Or perhaps I am just projecting. Perhaps I am just projecting my own longing. I feel myself wanting, craving something. Craving purpose. What is my life for? What should I do with it? How can I even know what I want?
When I ask myself what I want, the answers vary. I want to do good. I want to relax. I want to enjoy life. I want to feel deeply. I want to see beautiful things. I want to create something beautiful. I want to leave some sort of beauty in the world, even if it is small. I want the world to be what I thought it was when I was young. I saw the world in a gold hue, in long summers, in a self-absorbed way believing the world that was in my head was the same as the outside world.
I want all those things, but right now it feels like I am grasping in the dark. I can sense those things are there, I can feel the potential burning just out of reach of my fingertips, but I can not see the light. I am wandering around blindly, hoping to bump into something. I begin to feel hopeless and tired of walking. I want to lay down. It is comfortable and I say that I’ll only rest for 5 minutes, but somehow the time has lengthened into half a year. This frightens me, “Has it really been this long?” I think to myself. And now I am laying down not just to rest, but because I feel paralyzed, trapped.
But I want to move. So every other day, I force myself to at least get up and stand. I take one step forward, rest, and try another step. It is a slow process and I find myself giving up over and over again. But I have to move. I have to get out. I have to progress. As I write these words I stop and let myself soak into them. I’m ready to take the next step.